There Was This Girl
by Don't Believe a Word
Summary: [PreRENT] The chronicles of Mark and Maureen, quite possibly the most humorously mismatched couple, canon or otherwise, in the fandom. Here, we explore the good, the bad, and the humiliating, with a dose of humor, mostly in the form of a slashy Roger.
1. Body Language

**Title: **There Was This Girl**  
Fandom: **RENT.**  
Pairing: **Implied Mark/ Maureen. Implied Roger/ April. Implied Benny/ Random woman.

**Notes and Disclaimer:** Here's something not nearly as morbid as my first story. It's goofy and light-hearted, and for that reason, it bothers me a little. Call me evil, but I feel more comfortable writing sad than happy. Pardon Roger's interruptions throughout the story. I just didn't want Mark to gush too much.

I still don't own anything, as it belongs to the late, great Jonathan Larson.

Enjoy.

* * *

_-Roger-_

As soon as I climb off the ladder and under the curtain of hanging towels and sheets that serves as the wall to the bedroom I share with Mark, I know that something unnatural's happened to him today. Something completely out of the ordinary has presented itself to the most normal person in the loft, and it's clear as anything just looking at him.

See, there's this thing about Mark that you've got to notice when you're living with him: he'll never tell you _exactly_ what's going on, but you can always catch the general gist of it from his body language. If he's really excited about something, you'll see it right away; he'll have this queer sort of half-sideways grin on his face and won't seem to be able to sit down to save his life. If there's something bothering him, chances are, Mark will sit up in our room, right on the edge of his mattress, and scribble down plot points or character backgrounds for some script he'll never look at again. That, or he'll take his camera and go on long walks, come in and out at strange times, and then actually sleep eight hours and wake up perfectly content in the morning.

Sometimes, I swear to God, he's such a little girl.

But today- I just don't know. Today, I really can't tell what's up with my camera-savvy friend. I can't read him.

When I get to my feet and move to the side of his mattress, on which he's all sprawled out, Mark stares right past me. Living in New York, you get used to stuff like that pretty fast, but when talking about Mark, who, very much like my mother, insists on asking things like, "How was your day, Roger?" and "Did your bassist show up today, Roger?" no greeting is rare and strange.

He's got this weird look on his face, too, and I can't figure out what sort of weird look it is. It isn't overly happy or upset or anxious. It isn't overly anything. It's almost that expression that you put on when you shut your hand in the car door but don't want anyone to know that you're in pain. If it is this sort of look, I've got two guesses as to why Mark is staring off into space:

Either someone kicked him in the nuts, or his camera is broken. It's more likely the first than the second, as I've always had this feeling that losing his camera would hurt Mark even more than a swift kick to the groin, and he'd probably lay in bed and cry for hours afterwards.

He's not crying, though. Just sort of laying there, his legs straight out in front of him, his arms resting casually over his stomach. If it weren't for the fraying sweater and the threadbare cords, he'd look just about ready for a casket.

"Mark." Slightly irritated at his silence and, admittedly, just a bit curious as to what's running through his head, I stick the toe of my boot into his ribs, and he snaps out of it quickly, squirming and knocking my foot away from his side. He doesn't throw anything at me or whine that I kicked him, but draws himself up so that he's resting on his arms, turns his head towards me, and addresses me with little more than a, "Hm?"

"What, Mark? You don't say hi anymore?" I'm not really angry, and from the smile starting to break on his face, he knows it. "What's so hot on your mind that you don't have anything to say to your best friend?"

"Sorry, Roger. I was just thinking-"

"Yeah, no shit." I relocate the brilliant yellow milk crate that serves as Mark's nightstand so that it's right under me, and I seat myself with my elbows on my knees, looking way more interested than I really am. "Okay. I'm listening."

"No, it's-"

"Something that's spacing you out. A lot. Come on, Mark; you bug me about all of my moods. Now it's your turn to confess."

He sits up some more, his eyes worried behind his thick glasses. "You really think I'm bugging you? Roger, if you don't want to talk about something, just-" I cut him off with a stony glare, and he lays back again, probably to avoid looking me in the eye. I love that I can do that to people, and it shows in my smirk.

"Well, Benny and I went to this bar, just to-"

"Uh huh."

He pouts. I grin. Sorry, Mark, but you're boring me already.

"We -no, just Benny, really- Benny was looking for a.. just someone to-"

"Okay, Mark. I got it: Benny was looking for a few beers and a one-night-stand, so he dragged you out to some bar because chicks dig gay guys."

"That's about it," he says, his face reddening significantly. He didn't catch that. More likely than not, he didn't hear anything past 'one-night-stand.' Or maybe that's me talking.

"So... we were sitting at the bar, but we weren't really drinking anything. Benny kept making eyes at all these girls, and I was just sort of... you know- sitting. Not drinking, but just sitting and-"

"Mark." Whatever this is, it had better be good, for all the dancing he's doing to try to get around the final story. "Come on."

"There was this _girl_, Roger." Suddenly, there's this elated little blonde kid laying in front of me with a monstrous grin splitting his blushing face. I don't think I've ever seen someone smile like that and actually mean it, and I can't help but grin at the look on his face. I lean down towards him and take his bony shoulders in my hands, shaking him as I probably would if he told me that he was getting married. Or better:

"Jesus, Mark- you got laid!"

He struggles and pries himself out of my hands, flopping down onto his back while trying to hide the laughter behind his scowl.

"No, but-"

"But she makes you _horny_." I get kicked for that, but it was worth it.

"No!" Yes. A breath, and now, the smiley kid's back. "But Roger, she was _beautiful_. More than just hot, you know? And cute. She was gorgeous, with this long, curly hair and a great smile-"

"And tits the size of-" Now he hurls a pillow at me, which was a mistake, as I return it to him by whacking him upside the head with his own weapon, enjoying every minute of his futile resistance.

"I'm telling April you said that." See? What a girl.

"She'll live, and I'll still get laid by someone other than my right hand."

He glares daggers at me, flipping me off until I make a move to grab his finger, when he sets his arms back over his chest again. For a very long moment, he keeps his little smile on his face, but it morphs into another huge grin while the film reels turn in his head.

"You should have seen her, Roger."

"I don't know, Mark; if all this is true, I might follow Benny's lead and go looking for a one-night-stand. What's this girl's name?"

"What? I -"

"Dude, I was joking." God, he can be high-strung. " I'm not going to steal your girlfriend. I just want to know the name of this wonder-chick."

Mark looks at me like I suddenly wasn't the undeniably sexy, bad-boy rock star that I am, wringing his hands nervously as he pushes himself up and shakes his head from side to side.

"How would I know her name, Roger? Do you really think I could talk to someone like _her_? She's probably got a boyfriend. Two, maybe! I mean, this girl-"

And that's about where I walk out on him, shoving him onto his back and shaking my head as I climb back down the ladder, remembering a new rule to Mark Cohen's body language: If Mark's head is in the clouds, if he's got a dreamy sort of look in his eyes, if he doesn't say hello, and if he smiles and sighs even when I call him boring, gay, and horny, then Mark is suffering from severe puppy love and should be left alone to come off his cloud, lest I have to listen to him gush for another half hour.

* * *

**More Notes: **Review and make my day? 

I might continue this so that it follows the relationship between Mark and Maureen for a while. But I might not.


	2. Old, New, Borrowed, Blue

**Chapter Two**: Old, New, Borrowed, Blue.  
**Notes and Disclaimer: **Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, both for this and for _But He Won't Let Me_. It's awesome, getting e-mails with positive feedback.

In other news, I'm trying this from a point of view I don't normally take, so we'll see how it goes.

I still don't own anything.

* * *

_April_

"So?"

I bite my lip in a sorry attempt to keep a straight face. Roger, who's standing behind me with his arms around my stomach and his chin on my shoulder, snorts obnoxiously, and I slap his leg playfully, which only spurs him on.

"You're his friend, you ass," I hiss into his ear. "You're supposed to support him."

"Not when he looks like a clown." He thinks that kissing my neck is going to get him off the hook for that one. He's wrong.

"Roger!" I swat him again, harder this time, but he goes unfazed. "You help him, then."

"Fine. Mark!" he calls, straightening up and disentangling himself from me just so that he can stroke what's left of his goatee and assume a mock-thoughtful position before his usual smirk reclaims his expression. "Yeah. You look like a clown."

I can see Mark's shoulders sag and his eyes go to his shoes, tattered sneakers that, even to Roger's normally nonchalant judgment, really don't belong with the rest of his... costume.

From the top, it really doesn't look _that_ bad. His hair is the gravity-defying blonde fluff that it always is, but we've just come to live with that; Mark's hair will never lay neat. In going through his tiny wardrobe, -which, just to give you an idea, he keeps folded under two milk crates near his bed- he's found a black dress shirt that fits him well enough and manages to make him look not quite as scrawny as he really is. He's wearing this tie, though, and not a not a goofy, conversation-piece tie that I would expect him to own; it's a dressy tie that I'm sure he bought just for the occasion. Paisley and red and boring, tied with a neat knot so tight that I'm afraid the color in his face is going to go from pink to blue pretty damn soon.

After that, it's just funny, despite my attempts to bite back my laughter. I guess that either Mark couldn't find anything immaculately clean under his milk crates or the only pants he owns are made of denim or corduroy, because the dark slacks he's got on definitely don't belong to him. They're much too big, both around the waist and down, and he's got them held with a belt -a brown belt, which I know is wrong- and cuffed multiple times at the ankles. Then there are the shoes, ratty old All Stars that have holes at the anklebones and are threadbare everywhere else.

I smile sympathetically and walk to where he's leaning on one of the ladders, throwing my arm around his neck just to get at Roger, who shoots me a dumb little look before moving towards us.

"Cheer up, Mark," I try. "It's just not right for this, but you'd make a very beautiful bride." He turns his head towards me a raises an eyebrow, obviously not catching on. "You've got everything a bride needs: something old-" The shoes. "-Something new." The tie. "-Something borrowed..." Because I recognize the pants as belonging to Collins; they go unworn unless he's out lecturing at some big, fancy university. "-And something blue."

He looks down to check himself out, seeing if he had maybe tucked his shirt into his boxers instead of his pants.

"Your eyes."

He smiles ruefully and nods his head noncommittally. "I guess so."

"Mark, if you go into this bar looking like that, you're going to get your ass kicked." And Roger reenters the conversation with this encouraging news. What an ass. "You look like you're going to a chess match, not an East Village bar."

"You do look sort of morbid, Mark. Like you're going to a funeral."

"Or you're reliving your Bar-Mitzvah."

"No offense, but you're too pasty to wear all black, hon. It makes you look sort of dead."

"This girl's going to take one look at you, laugh, and go find a guy who doesn't look fourteen. Who's in jeans and leather and-"

"Gee. Thanks, guys."

I can tell by the 'help me' look on his face and the slumping posture that we're working wonders for Mark's already low self-confidence.

"Chin up, Mark," I say as I place two of my fingers under his chin and tip his head back. "Just try something else. I'm sure Roger will help you."

"Yeah right, April," my peevish Roger spits back. "I'm not his personal fashion.. guy. Whatever you call it. Or his mother. Mark's a big boy; he can get dressed by-"

But the look from me that clearly reads, 'Roger Davis, if you don't get your ass upstairs and give your friend a hand right now, you'll be the one sleeping with him tonight,' makes him scowl and bite his tongue damn fast.

"You're pathetic, Mark. Go upstairs and take those dumb pants off."

Believe me when I say that the look on Benny's face when he walks in to that is absolutely priceless, even if Roger's middle finger doesn't agree. I laugh and seat myself on the couch while Mark trudges up to our room and Roger turns into the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water and following behind him.

The next five or six minutes are filled with exclamations from the loft rooms, of "Damnit, Roger!'s" and "Well, hold still, then's," and "That hurts!'"that have Benny and me in tears with laughter. I'm almost sad when the clamoring dies down and the veil of makeshift curtains parts at the top of the ladder, revealing Roger first, with Mark's loosened tie hanging around his neck.

"I hope you're happy," he growls, flopping down on the couch next to me just as Mark's feet appear on the top rung. "He's harder to get dressed than I am." Coming from the man who would gladly spend the mornings naked, save for a sheet, this means something.

"So?" Mark repeats the question he first asked a while ago, but is met without the humiliating laughter this time around. His slacks are blue jeans now, broken in without being riddled with holes, and the tie is no more. His shirt is untucked and unbuttoned at the cuffs and collar, then again so that his collarbone just visible. That probably took some convincing. The ratty sneakers are still there, but I guess there's no helping that, as they're the only shoes Mark owns.

The best part about all of this is his hair. The glass of water that Roger filled is empty, and Mark's shoulders are wet, leaving no doubt in my mind as to how Roger groomed him. His fluffy blonde hair is darker now, wet with water and gel, and spiked up as much as it could be without looking too obnoxious.

While Mark isn't quite built to rock the whole look like Roger would be, it's definitely an improvement over the funeral wear of earlier, and the proud claps and whistles from Benny and me, the smirk from Roger earn a grin from our little guinea pig.

When we're done ushering him through the door and down to the street, promising that he'll be fine, that he won't choke, that he _will _get laid -that's Roger- and that we'll wait up for him with wine and condoms, we head back upstairs and share a laugh over our little Mark, Roger and I curled up on the couch and smiling like the proud parents we are. I break one of our more passionate moments with a sly smile and a question:

"Do you really think he'll get laid tonight?"

Roger chuckles and shrugs his shoulders, sliding me off his lap and standing to his feet. "You want to find out?"

"Roger! That's.. don't go after him. He'd die."

"No, seriously!" he protests, slipping into his jacket and handing me mine as he approaches the door to the stairs. "If things are going well for him, we're staying out of the house. The thought of trying to sleep while Mark loses his virginity in such close quarters is enough to make me lose my sex drive."

He could have left it at that.

The high-pitched squealing and moaning was a little unnecessary.

* * *

**Notes: **So? What'd you think?

I still don't know how far to take this. I think I'm biting off more than I can chew. But we'll see.


	3. Only in the Movies

**Chapter Three:** Only in the Movies

**Notes and Disclaimer: **Welcome to Chapter Three, which is finally from Mark's point of view. Again, thank you to all of you who review and make my day. Updates might be a bit fewer and further between right now, because my spring break ends today, which means I've actually got to devote some time to schoolwork, but I promise that I'll keep this going until things resolve.

I don't own anyone or anything, but you know this by now.

* * *

_Mark_**  
**

I sometimes think that, instead of trying to write a screenplay, I should just tape a few days of my life and try to get it sold as an indie documentary. Sure, action sequences would be unlikely, and I've yet to witness a shooting or a gang war, and there would _definitely_ not be any sex sequences. Not starring me, anyway. Still, I think a day in my life would make a great comedy of errors.

My day is looking more and more like some cruel joke. I _am_ Alexander, and some sadistic, other-worldly power is enjoying making my evening terrible, horrible, no-good, and just generally very bad.

See, things back at home were tolerable. Sure, Roger was being Roger in his teasing and sarcasm, and the outcry over dressing up wasn't exactly what I was looking for while trying to work up the courage to find that girl again, but I guess I've gotten used to it, having lived with this sort of thing since I left Brown a few months ago. It was after all of that when things started to go downhill.

**_EXT EAST VILLAGE- EVENING._**_. The sky, smoggy as it is with darkening clouds and traffic pollution, is illuminated by the setting February sun, which casts ribbons of orange and purple light through the grey bands of smog. MARK COHEN, our young protagonist, hurries up Avenue B, handheld 16 millimeter Bolex in hand, regretting leaving his coat at home as the unforgiving late-winter air assaults his skin. A DEALER handles a JUNKIE on the corner, and MARK averts his eyes, hurries on, past the HOMELESS MEN on the steps and the literal examples of STARVING ARTISTS. For once, he is too occupied to turn his camera on. He worries hit lower lip enough to make it bleed in the cold. He is anxious. He is nervous. He is scared out of his mind._

If I wrote a screenplay for today, that's how it would start. There would be a series of flashbacks, of course, while the screen Mark made his way through the village: a bored-looking Mark sitting with Benny at the bar, a slow, panning shot of the beautiful woman as he first lays eyes on her. Pining. Fretting. Being ordered to do something about it by a certain friend. Silent, at first, then gradually increasing in volume until the protagonist's inner turmoil manifests as screams, accompanied by rapid frames from the bar, from the loft, etc. The flashbacks end with a wailing car horn as the on-screen Mark, so deep in his thoughts, nearly walks into the path of a speeding vehicle and gets splashed as the old Mustang screeches to a halt in a deepening puddle.

All of that really happened, honestly. The flashbacks were just me doing some thinking. A lot of thinking. So much thinking that, yes, I almost got hit by a car and yes, it started to rain without me noticing. It started to pour.

I should have taken that as a sign and turned and run for home, but I just cradled my camera between my arms to protect it from the rain and hurried on towards the bar.

As I stand here now, in front of the building I first entered with Benny a full week ago, I get the sinking feeling that I should have turned home. There's a guy at the door I didn't notice last time, either because he wasn't there or because I was too busy talking to Benny, and he's giving me this look like I'm going to try to rush past him and cause a riot in the bar within.

I would never push past this guy. Not in a million years, even for this beautiful woman; he's probably even taller than Roger, who has at least half a foot on me, and easily weighs twice what I do. He could be a typical biker with his mullet and moustache and his scowl and his chain, but he's not; he's a bouncer, the kind of guy that feeds on the fear of the meek and the timid.

I am both meek and timid, and I am, once again, scared to death as this guy stares me down.

"You want in, kid?"

"Yes. Yes, sir." Actually, I could just leave. I'll probably be safer just walking away. Running away.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty one." I'm not, but the lie's become the truth now, when it comes to getting into bars and clubs and parties. I've never been questioned after that. Looked at funny, sure, but not questioned or second-guessed. Then again, I've never had to get in anywhere like this without Roger or Collins or Benny.

"I.D." He thrusts his hand at me just as he steps aside to let two couples pass him.

"I..." I don't have any I.D. save my card for the library on campus -which I can't use, because my birthday will give me away,- but I fish through my pockets anyway, trying to save at least a little bit of face. "My coat... I left my wallet in my coat pocket."

"Well, you should go get your coat then, shouldn't you?" Even behind that goofy moustache, I can see his fat lips curl into a smirk. "Your mommy wouldn't want you out in the cold and wet without a coat, would she?"

Not like I don't get that every other day from Roger.

Shooting the bouncer an irritated glance, I reluctantly turn and shuffle away, slowly dying inside at the realization that if I can't get back in, I'll probably never see this girl again. I'll never know her name. I'll be like the prince in Cinderella, infatuated with a beautiful, mysterious woman, but doomed to live without her in solitude and misery. Except I don't even get a glass slipper. Or a phone number.

"Hey, you."

I turn back around at the sound of a new voice, feminine, but not April's. "Me?" I'm the only guy pathetic enough to be standing out in the rain, so I guess it has to be me.

For a minute, I think that the gel running into my eyes is playing games with my vision, which is bad enough without the sting of hair gel. It seems, for that minute, that I've come face to face with the object of my sighing and smiling, but it can't be her. She wouldn't talk to me, remember?

"Hey?"

But it _is_ her. It is her. Even after I brush my sopping wet hair back and blink the gel out of my eyes, even after I discreetly pinch my leg and mentally scream at myself to wake up, there she is, standing two feet in front of me, her hip popped and her arms crossed over her chest, her made-up lips curved into an amused sort of smile.

"You okay there, cutie?"

No way. No chance. This isn't happening. This can't be happening, but I nod anyway, playing along until I wake up alone in my bed.

"So... Are you going to stand out in the rain all night, or are you going inside?" She smirks at me, nodding her head of dark curls towards the door to that bar, and I think I'm going to pass out. Or wake up.

"I-uh.. I don't.. I can't find my-"

"I.D.? Oh, don't worry about that. I can get you in without it. Easy."

Not seeming to mind that I'm soaked and dripping, the gorgeous woman glides up next to me and slips her hand into the back pocket of my jeans, adjusts my arm so that it rests over her shoulders, which might even be a little higher than my own. Leading us back to the door, she flashes a grin at my good friend the bouncer, who is still eyeing me suspiciously, following her arm into my pocket and making me squirm closer to her.

And you know what? She doesn't seem to mind. When we cross the threshold, I untangle myself from her and shove the hand that isn't clutching my camera into my pocket. My eyes turn down towards my squeaking sneakers as I feel my face getting hot, earning a giggle from this beautiful girl.

"Aw, that suits you!" she laughs, lifting my chin with her index finger and winking towards me, setting my heart racing and the blood rushing to my face. Only to my face, thank you very much. "You're even cuter when you're blushing."

And this has got to be a dream. This has to be me dreaming up a fantasy, subconsciously longing for what I can't have, because things like this only happen to guys like me in movies.

So... maybe I can change my plans a little, while I wait and see if I wake up from this dream.

Maybe, instead of a documentary, I can shoot for a romantic comedy.

* * *

**Notes**: Wow. My Mark slipped really badly there. Sappy, love struck Mark isn't as easy for me to write as angsty, wounded Mark. Oh, well.

I think we go back to Roger next chapter, but, like with all things, we'll see when we get there.

**Shameless plug**: For that angsty, wounded Mark I was just talking about, see my other story, _But He Won't Let Me. _Gratzi.


	4. Sex and X and Booze

**Chapter Four:** Sex and X and Booze

**Notes and Disclaimer:** Sorry for the delay. School's a bitch, and I'm really very lazy. I've got half a dozen essays to write for a sadistic Government teacher –bites fist- so I'm doing my best. Not that it's an excuse. I just thought I'd share.

Anyway, here we find Roger and company in that bar place from the last chapter. In my head, it's like _Contact_, but with drugs and alcohol and loud, loud music. And a bar. Maybe the Continental Club will look like this in the movie. Maybe not.

I own nothing!

* * *

_Roger_

I'm having a hard time believing that we've come to the right place. When Mark mentioned that Benny had spirited him away to some bar, I figured, knowing Benny and understanding that Mark hadn't come home sick to his stomach, that he had meant some flashy Uptown club that would make our resident lady-killer look as hot as he thinks he is.

And while, yeah, this place is uptown, it definitely isn't Uptown, and it sure isn't flashy. As a matter of fact, it's really smoggy in here and it absolutely reeks. Cigarettes and weed and cheap beer and cheaper sex. If I can't spot Mark in the next ten minutes or so, I'll know it's either because he's the victim of a group of underdressed X-addicts or is trying to find a corner to curl up in where he won't be able to see the drunk, drugged up girls, the horny guys, and the general disregard for all of his mom's "moral values." Good luck with that, Mark; in the corner closest to April and me, there are two girls going at it. Really going at it.

"Roger," April says, tapping out the ash of her cigarette on the lip of an empty beer bottle before taking another drag and smirking towards me. "You don't really think that Mark would come here; this looks the like kind of place where _we'd_ go for some fun." She tilts her head in the direction of the two girls in that corner, and it's my time to smirk.

"No, this is the place." I motion for the cigarette and draw on it, occupying myself in trying to blow a smoke ring while April tries to convince me that Mark's given us a bad name and followed his wonder-chick to some less-sleazy place.

"Face it, babe; our little boy's growing up and exploring the wide world of sex and X and booze." I rest my arm across her shoulders and kiss at her neck until she takes the hint and makes herself comfortable in my lap. I've found my match in April, as far as sex-drive goes.

"I can't picture Mark on X, but whatever you say. You're the one carrying him home, though, if he gets himself fucked up and knocked out."

"What about getting fucked?"

"Roger," she scolds, taking my jaw between her thumb and index finger and rattling my head a little, "Getting fucked and getting fucked up are completely different things." Actually, in our case, they really aren't that different; where you've got one, you've probably got the other, but with April very much in my lap and her mouth now very much on mine, who the Hell am I to argue? Making out is _so_ much better than proving a point. I'll have to point that out to Mark next time I see him, just for his own good.

In the short and long of it, I guess we get a little carried away; I tip a half-empty (or half-full -whatever- no interest in Collin's philosophic stuff) beer over and bang my elbow hard against the underside of the table trying to right it. Still, you don't see me backing off; some things just aren't worth whining over. I'll have to tell that to Mark.

April pulls away way too suddenly, though, yanking her fingers out of my hair, which is just getting long enough so that it hurts when it gets pulled like that, and sitting back towards my knees.

"What?" Reluctantly, I pull my hand out from under her shirt and nonchalantly glance down towards my lap. "What?" But she's not looking down. She's looking off past my ear, her mouth hanging a little bit open with a sneaky smile coming across her red-painted lips. "April. _What_?"

I turn my head to look over my shoulder, and after a second or two, I see what.

I've found Mark. On the fringe of the sweaty crowd of half-naked punk-rock princes and princesses is my geeky, ex-Ivy League mamma's boy buddy, pink all the way to the ears and soaked with rain through to the skin. His hair -which I was actually almost proud of- is a damp mess stuck to his forehead, and I'm guessing that the white shine towards the collar of his shirt all the gel that it took to keep it under control, washed out since he was too drunk on this girl to wear a coat or something . So much for that.

Speaking of that girl: She's there, too. She's definitely there in all her glory, skin-tight red leather pants and one of those strapless shirt things that really shouldn't be staying up with the way she's dancing, right up against Mark, a beer in one hand and his hair in another, her hips flush against his, grinding and thrusting and just making Mark look like a complete prude. Which he is.

But, holy shit. Mark was wrong when he argued that she wasn't hot. There's no denying it; that chick is amazing, and looking at her, she's sure not afraid to let everyone know it, including Mark, who's still completely stiff and probably scared out of his mind.

It's a good thing I've got April, or I'd have to steal Mark's girlfriend.

"Do you _see_ that?" April snaps me out of my not-so-faithful thoughts in leaning against my chest, staring over my other shoulder at Mark and his new friend.

"No shit, I see it," I shoot back, not even bothering to hide my smile or cut my low laughter until Mark, for whatever reason, turns and looks around. Shit. He can't see us. "April," I hiss, pulling her back around and into another kiss that results in more casual groping until I think the coast is clear.

But when I turn back around, the happy couple is gone. They're not dancing, anyway, but they aren't too hard to follow; just follow the sexy red pants. She's leading him off by the wrist, towards the nearly empty bar, a toothy, but still extremely hot grin on her face to contrast Mark's desperate look.

Now, if there's one reason that Mark shouldn't be here, it's not because he's too young. It's not because these places freak him out or because he'll lose his cool if someone approaches him. It's because he can't drink. Mark can not hold his liqueur to save his life. Not only does he go completely nuts after only a few beers, but he'll pass out not too long after that. Believe me; it's happened before and resulted in me and Benny sharing a bed with an unconscious Mark who fell out of bed and puked his guts out around five in the morning. Alcohol poisoning my ass.

So when there are three bottles of beer sitting out on the bar in front of the mix-matched Mark and chick, April nudges me in the side.

"Rog, he's going to make himself sick."

"So? He knows that he's in trouble if he drinks. If he doesn't want to make an ass of himself, he'll be smart enough to stop after one or two-"

"So you're just going to let him?" Maybe it's that freaky maternal instincts thing, since April never had any little brothers or sisters running around to look after. Even if she's out getting smashed and high and sleeping with me every night, she sure does look out for Mark. And she accuses _me_ for following him here. "What's he gonna say? 'No thanks. I'd have one, but last time I got drunk, I lay on the bathroom floor all morning?'"

"He might. Knowing his mom-"

"Bullshit, Roger. He's crazy for this girl; he's not gonna turn her down and risk getting humiliated."

Looking back over at them, I see that Mark's started on his first drink, while the girl's still on the one she had dancing. She's twisting his wet hair into loose curls and running her hand up and down the back of his neck, grinning while he smiles nervously and laughs in spite of himself. For someone so pasty, Mark blushes like nothing I've ever seen.

"So, you want me to go over there and remind him that he'll get sick if he drinks too much? Yeah, I bet she'd get a real kick out of that, April. 'Oh, that's cute. You have a chaperone with you.'"

"Yeah, well." April slips out of my lap, fixes her skirt, and scowls down at me. Must be that time of the month. "It might not matter to you if Cabrini calls to say that they need someone to take him home after they pump his stomach, but I'm not-"

"Jesus, April!" I growl, standing and taking her by the arm as she turns to walk away. "I was joking. Okay? Shit.. I'm not going to leave Mark to get wasted here; he'd get himself killed. Just.. calm down, alright?" From the way she's glaring at me, I don't think she's convinced. "Listen: we'll stick around. If he's looking like he's going to keep drinking, we'll go and introduce ourselves, okay?"

But it looks like we might be a little bit late for that. When I look back over to spot Mark, his wonder chick is staring dead at us, an sly sort of amused smirk on her lips as she turns her head back towards Mark. Her hand creeps towards his lap, and he spins around all of a sudden, and both of them are looking straight at me and April, who are staring right back at them. The girl says something to him, and Mark's face goes from very red to very white, then back to red again while he stands up too quickly, knocking over the full bottle of beer in his rush to run away. I can see the girl laughing as the tries to clean it up, only to be stopped by a bartender with a rag and then again by his friend, who's aranged herself so that her knee is between his legs and her arms are around his neck. Pinned between this hot girl and the bar, Mark looks helplessly over at me, and I grin, seeing the curly-haired girl wink obviously in my direction just before she presses her mouth right against his, her hands stopping his head when, in his surprise, he tries to jump away.

But his eyes are closed now, and he's got to be enjoying this.

Unable to contain it and ready to get Mark for noticing me before I could sneak up on him, I yell, "Score, Mark!" in his direction, and April smacks my thigh. Mark's girl, though, breaks her kiss long enough to grin at me, then goes back to leading a stunned and embarrassed Mark in his first kiss.

This chick's going to eat him alive.

* * *

**Notes:** Aagh. Roger is reminding me more and more of _Angels in America_'s Prior Walter. I suck.

I apologize for my pathetic attempt at sex in general. I can't say that I speak from experience, and while it may sometimes seem that I've got no shame, I'm really just an innocent boy who doesn't always think lovely thoughts.

I've got ideas bouncing around for a significantly less happy story, but I can't sort them out right now. Maybe after I've eaten something.

Fare thee well.


	5. Cute

**Chapter Five**: Cute

**Notes and Disclaimer:** Woo. This chapter drove me absolutely nutty, writing it. I'm still not too fond of it, but I'm not re-writing it again, so I guess I'll live.

Thank you so much to everyone who's been reviewing. I'm thrilled to know that you're enjoying this, whatever it is.

The late, great Jonathan Larson owns all.

* * *

_Maureen _

So, this kid really is pretty cute. Not hot; to be hot, a guy's got to look.. you know- not breakable-looking. Not skinny and pale. With a smile that makes a girl giggly in the wow-that's-making-me-horny sort of way, not in the aww-that's-so-fuckin'-adorable sort of way. He's got to be confident and strong and exciting; everything this kid isn't.

But he's cute. Blonde over blue, short, with that I-couldn't-afford-to-eat-during-college look to him. Even if he doesn't look old enough to be out of college. He's cute. And, unlike a lot of guys, he looks good in glasses. In thick, very unstylish glasses. When a guy looks good in glasses, you know he's got to have some kind of redeeming quality to his face. I don't know what it is; maybe it's his eyes or his cheekbones or the shape of his nose, but there's got to be something good about his face that I can't put my finger on. Yet.

I saw him looking at me a little while ago. Staring at me like I scared the shit out of him or was going to make him sick. Butterflies. He was sitting on a stool at the bar next to some slick-looking black guy, and I guess I sort of thought he was gay at first. I mean, this guy kept throwing his arm over his shoulder and shaking him, laughing and grinning and nudging him square in the chest. Maybe he was just really wasted. Either way, I kind of brushed him off the first time.

But this blonde kid-- he was just sort of staring, you know? Like I was the only one in the place. Very cute, and I've got to admit: there's nothing like knowing some stranger is tripping head over heels for you...besides maybe fucking said stranger after getting pleasantly drunk and sweaty dancing. So, when I saw him again outside the bar, drenched from the rain and dripping, cold, and very much alone, I figured: why the Hell not? It's not like he's going to have girls hanging all over him, and it's not like I'm going to be crushed if it turns out he's gay or on his way home or involved with some other girl. It's not like I've got anything to lose, and a fling never hurt anyone who used a condom.

So, after spending like, forty-five minutes with him, I've gotten this much: His name's Mark. ('M-mark Cohen,' as he put it when we first walked through the door and he thrust his free hand out towards me, realizing that he hadn't asked my name and apologizing excessively.) He's very polite. Maybe a little too polite, but still cute. He lives here in the Village, making us practically neighbors, and he's got a lot of roomies, which means that he can't make rent by himself. But, hey, I don't need a guy with tons of money; if I did, I'd be looking in all the wrong places. East Village guys aren't known for their cash, and they don't tip well.

I kind of get the ide that Mark hasn't had a lot of sex. As a matter of fact, I kind of get the idea that Mark hasn't had a lot of girlfriends; he looks down at his feet a lot and blushes even more, and when I managed to drag him out to dance, he looked a little bit sick, like he was going to pass out because I was pressed right up against him. I'll admit that I was a little offended at first, when he tried to ask that I not grind into him without really having to ask it, but his clumsy attempt at dancing was too cute to keep me mad. And besides: being so close to him, I know for sure that at least some part of him was enjoying it.

You know what else is cute about him? About blonde-haired, blue-eyed Mark? He wants to shoot films. He wants to write and direct movies, so he carries around this camera -small enough to hold in one hand, but too big to fit in his pocket, which sucks, because I'm itching to dance again- everywhere he goes. I wonder if he sleeps with it. He's always looking through the eyepiece, very quiet and very still, just looking around at things that aren't really all that amazing: a cigarette dying in an ashtray, a bent-up bottle cap, a smashed bottle, destroyed on the floor. He looks.. I don't know.. sad, I guess. Or maybe just really, really focused on what he's doing: filming funny little artistic things.

He's watching the bartender's hand drawing beer from the taps now, while I opt for a bottle and, in turn watch him, amused with his quirky moments of silence and concentration, but quickly getting bored with the lack of attention he's paying me. When I wave my hand in front of his lens and cup my palm over it, he immediately pulls backwards against the bar, clutching the camera to stomach and staring at me like I was going to hurt it or something.

"Whoa, chill out," I say, laughing and holding my hands defensively in front of his chest. "I'm not going to kill it. I won't even touch it, okay?"

He gives me a smile for that and finally puts his camera down, stopping the film and letting it rest on his lap, still cradling it even when it's off.

"But, Mark," I start, pushing my fingers back through his hair and grinning when he blushes, "Why don't you film people? They're usually more interesting than beer taps."

"Oh, I-" He picks his camera back up again, fiddling with it while I keep pushing his wet hair back off his forehead. "I mean...that's kind of voyeuristic, don't you think? Just watching people? 'Hi there. I'm a complete stranger here to film you for my own purposes. Just keep doing what you were doing and pretend I'm not here.' Couldn't I get arrested for that?" He gesticulates with his hands while he talks, waving them around close to him like he's talking more to himself than to me. Maybe he's Italian.

"Mark, this is New York, land of tourists. Nobody even thinks twice when they see some college kid staring through a camera."

"But I'm not a college kid," he protests, "and I'm really unlucky. I'll start shooting the wrong guy, and he'll.. I don't know.. kick my ass and steal my camera."

I get this really bad feeling all of a sudden and put my beer back down onto the bar, biting my lower lip and looking at Mark, who leans back a little, like he's afraid of what I'm going to say.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh.. You're not in college?" Fuck. Now, I really have nothing against younger guys, and I knew when I saw Mark waiting outside that he couldn't get in because he was too young-- eighteen or nineteen. There's no way he's old enough to have graduated already, and if this kid isn't in college yet, he's... what? Fifteen? That's really sick. "Oh, shit. Mark.. I'm really, really sorry." I'm not a cradle-robber.

"Oh! No, I-" He sits up suddenly, holding his camera close and blushing to his ears. "I.. left. I _was_ in college, but-" He shrugs and dies off until I urge him to keep going. "My parents had it all planned out, I guess: I was supposed to be a doctor, so I took Biology and stuff at Brown-"

"Biology? Did you cut open a frog?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Mark, that's terrible! Don't kill things for something stupid like that!"

"It was already dead. I didn't kill it." I frown, but when he sees that I'm trying to keep quiet, he hurries on before I have the chance to interrupt again, fiddling with the lens cap to his camera without looking at me. "I skipped second grade-" Oh, so he's cute _and_ smart. "-so I was a year ahead. I'd be a doctor by twenty-four if everything worked out, and I'd get married and have 2.54 good Jewish kids, and my parents would be proud and happy grandparents."

"Wow. Your parents must be pretty evil."

"Well... no… just a little controlling."

"Same thing." I wave for another bottle of beer as I finish mine off and blow over the lip of it. "Keep going."

"Okay... I- uh… just didn't want to be in medicine, I guess, so two months into classes, I switched my major to film and my minor to writing and... my parents almost died when they found out. They said that they were going to cut me off if I didn't switch back, and I didn't believe them until they actually _did_."

I wince hearing that and twist another curl into his hair. "Aw. Poor baby." He blushes to that, in his usual way, and grins a little bit, looking up at me for the first time in a long time, then back down at his camera.

"Well, it's not too bad. It gave me the excuse to leave. At the end of the first semester, I got on the train and came down here, and I've been living with Roger for a few months now."

"Roger?"

"Oh. My roommate."

"_Sure_ he is." I take another sip of my beer and start to laugh at the color in Mark's face, and even he manages to laugh lightly, if a little anxiously, and looks down There's a long moment of silence while I nurse my drink and Mark fiddles around with his camera. I don't do silence well, as little Mark will find out if I keep him around.

"Mark," I start again, snaking my hand around the back of his neck and drawing circles with one finger right where his wet hair starts, "Why don't you film people? Why don't you film me? The camera loves me."

That left him plenty of room for a pick-up line or something, by the way, but in his very Mark-ish fashion, he just smiles awkwardly and blushes, turning his camera over in his hands and apparently finding it _very_ interesting, seeing how he's been staring at it for minutes on end.

"Please, Mark?"

"Oh... sure. I just didn't think- - I thought it might be rude to just... you know, start watching you. You're really okay with it?" He's so cute. The way he looks at me, with his blue eyes wide behind his glasses and his eyebrows raised, it's like he's asking me permission for some great, huge deal, like he's genuinely curious as to what I'll tell him, worried that I'll turn him down.

"Of course I'm okay with it! Mark, if I'm going to be an actress, I can't be camera-shy. Come on.. for me? You'll be helping my career. I'll owe it all to you, one day."

There's no arguing with that, and it's only a matter of a few seconds before he's got his eye to the camera again, smiling this time, while a little black and white me grins and pouts and flirts with the camera, striking blatantly sexy poses that naturally make the cameraman color.

"Aren't you going to narrate?"

"Oh, no." He stops the film, then, drawing the camera back down into his lap, where he continues to fiddle with it. "It doesn't do audio. Well, not for more than a few seconds, anyway, and then it gets out of sync... I need my tape-recorder for that, and I just mix the video and the audio when-"

"No, I mean.. just talk. Just say what's going on. It doesn't matter if it's on tape or not. It'll help you remember, so when you're old and grey and thirty, you can look back and remember being here, with me, filming me and having me tell you to narrate. It'll help things stick in your memory if you talk.." Of course, I don't really know if this is true or not, but like I said: I don't do silence well, and Mark's definitely not saying anything while I'm working to seduce him, and that's weird. "Well, it works for memorizing lines, anyway. You should really try it."

"So, I just.. talk?"

"Yeah. You don't do a lot of that, do you?" He blushed, of course, and grins nervously. Aw. I intimidate him. How cute.

"What should I say?" he presses, holding the camera a few inches from his face, winding it up, and pointing the lens at me. "Just.. anything?"

"Well, you can introduce me, for one. You could talk about how, with looks and talent like I've got, I'll definitely be famous some day." Oh, yeah. I'm the Queen of Modesty. "Or you could say that you're in a sleazy bar with a beautiful woman who is slowly succeeding in making you very nervous and extremely horny all at the same time."

He opens his mouth to say it, then closes it right away, his face burning all the way to the tips of his ears as he catches the last part of my suggestion. "Maureen, that's not.."

"Oh, so.. I'm not doing anything for you."

"No, it's not that-"

"So, you _are_ horny."

"No! I'm not-"

"Oh, okay. I guess if you don't really feel anything for me, then-" I stand to leave, and he jumps to his feet, ready to go after me, his camera held close and his blue eyes wide and scared behind his glasses.

"Wait! Maureen, please. I wasn't.. I didn't mean that I don't.." It's _so_ hard to hide a smirk while he fumbles and trips over his words, wringing his hands around his camera and tending to look down at his sneakers. "Please don't go."

Like I'm going to argue with a face like that. I make a big show, though, of studying him, eyeing him up from his toes to the top of his head, where his blonde hair is starting to dry into curls, but paying special attention to his hands, which are clutching desperately to the camera. It's here that I notice this guy staring at me again. I caught him watching me once or twice when Mark and I were dancing, and now he and some girl are watching us again. Oh well. It's not that I'm not used to guys staring at me.

"Fine." I push that guy out of my mind and scowl lightly at Mark, then start to grin and take him by the arm, much to his obvious relief. "You win, Mark You win." He's finally smiling again when we get back to our seats at the bar, enough to show teeth, which are nice, which means that he must have had braces, which means that he was probably that poor skinny kid in the big glasses and braces that got picked on in grade school. "But since I'm going with you now, you've got to come with me later. Okay?" I bite my lip and try not to giggle when the color momentarily drains from his face.

"What..what do you mean?"

"Mark, the night never ends in the bar." He doesn't get it. "The night ends in either a hotel, a hospital, my place, or your place." Smirking at my painfully shy little Mark, I lay my hand on his thigh and lean in close to his ear, rubbing my hand up and down his leg, much to the darkening of his cheeks. "And it's not going to be in a hospital. And it's not going to be a hotel; that's so cliché for a first time."

I could swear that I hear him squeak, that I can feel the heat from his face on mine.

"Or... I could always go and talk to that guy over there," I tease, nodding in the direction of that guy who's been eyeing me up for a while now. "I'm sure he'd be happy to come with me."

At first, when Mark looks over at him, I get this crazy idea that he's jumping up to go and tell that guy to lay off, but it's fleeting; anyone can see that Mark would get his ass kicked. He goes very, very pale all of a sudden, and then the blood roars back into his cheeks, and he stands up, frantically trying to leave.

"Oh, God. Maureen, we've got to- damnit.." He spins back around, trying to sop up the beer that he's spilled, getting more flustered by the minute, while that guy and his girlfriend start heading over to us.

"Mark, calm down. Come here."

"No, we've got to-"

"Mark." There's no way he's leaving me now. We barely danced, he didn't drink, and theres' been almost no skin-to-skin contact in the last forty-five minutes or so. With all this in mind, I do the only thing I can do: I follow Mark up, then quickly turn so he's against the bar and in front of me, my knee between his legs so he won't dare try and jump if he values his fragile masculinity.

When I first kiss him, I feel him tense up again under me, like he's trying to melt into the bar and disappear. With my hand low between us, though, it's not long before he decides to open up and give in, and it's pretty obvious that he's glad he did. I sure am.

"If I were you, Mark, I would be filming this."

I pull away slowly from a shocked and breathless Mark at the sound of a different voice. A male voice, lower than Mark's, and not as clean. Much to my lack of surprise, it's that guy, a rocker-looking guy with a smirk and a goatee, and he's got his arms around a skinny girl, a groupie girlfriend, probably.

"I mean, come on: this is closer to soft core porn than you've ever seen."

"Outside of the loft, at least" the girl adds. The couple grins, and Mark blushes wildly, trying to wriggle out from between me and the bar without hurting himself.

"Let me guess: Roger."

The guy doesn't flinch. "Yeah. Roger."

"Well, I'm Maureen Johnson, mister badass."

Mark's glaring daggers at this Roger guy, scowling in spite of the blood in his face. Roger rolls his eyes and pulls his girlfriend closer to him. "This is April." Mark's still glaring. "It's a pleasure to meet you, really," he phones in, sneering at a very red Mark. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Charmed. Whatever else. God, Mark. You're such a little mom."

"Be nice, baby," the April girl chides. "Don't embarrass Mark in front of his _girlfriend_." The two of them smirk again, and Roger reaches out and cuffs Mark in the side of the head.

"He's already pretty embarrassed. I don't think I can make it much worse, huh, Mark?"

"You're such an ass," Mark mumbles, easing my knee out from between his legs so that he can stand on his own. Aw. He's got to be all macho in front of his friend. That's so ninth grade, but it's cute, in an I'm-in-denial-sort-of-way.

"Fine. I'll be an ass, and you can be a sick, drunk ass." Roger's smile is at the same time cruel and fun, and I can't really see how he and Mark can possibly live with each other. "Remember?"

Mark nods, and I run my fingers back through his hair, much to April's giggling. "It's okay. He's cute, anyway."

"Oh, yeah. He's really cute when he's sick." Mark lowers his eyes, April scowls, and Roger sighs, caught between his girlfriend and a hard place. "Look, if you're going to be a cute, sick, drunk ass, at least do it at home, where the beer's free. You won't blow all your money that way, and I won't have to bail you out of jail or the hospital"

"Gee, Roger," Mark replies bitterly, "You're really one to talk about wasting money."

There's a moment of silence, and when I get the feeling that Roger's about to slug an unsmiling Mark, I bend down to kiss my boy on the cheek and throw my arms around his shoulders. "Mark! I know where we're going tonight." Without even looking at me, he whimpers. "Come on, I'm in the mood for a party, and free beer and two couples is a party."

"Maureen, that's a really bad-"

"What's wrong, Mark?" April asks, disentangling herself from Roger long enough to pinch Mark's flushed cheek. "You're not embarrassed of us, are you?"

"Don't let us intrude," Roger adds, grinning and pulling April back to him. "We don't want to see that, anyway. We'll leave you alone."

"Roger, we're not going to-"

"We're not?"

Mark's going to make his nose bleed, with all this blushing he's doing. He's so frigging shy, but I guess I'll have to work on that.

"Come on, Mark. Please?"

Avoiding Roger's smirk and my pout, Mark shrugs his shoulders and nods, sighs lightly, and stands up. He's going to be a challenge. "Do I have a choice?"

"Right now?" I grin and latch onto him, kissing his neck once or twice before tugging him off towards the door, his friends following behind. "No. You don't."

* * *

**Notes**: Well, I really dropped the ball at the end, but it's better than it was. I've really got to work on Maureen. 


	6. The Talk

**Chapter Six:** The Talk

**Notes and Disclaimer:** This took significantly less headache than Chapter Five, probably because I'm writing as Mark again, and I had in mind the way in which I wanted the chapter to end. I put up a warning, but it's a surprise. You'll see. Oh. And Roger's mood swings violently. Watch your heads.

I still don't own anything. I borrow personalities and blatantly steal characters. Enjoy.

* * *

_Mark_

You know how people use that expression, "the kind of girl you'd take home to meet your parents?" When you meet a girl who's pretty and smart, genuinely nice, sweet, and caring, you tell your friends that she's the kind of girl you'd take home to meet your parents, even if you know that, a.) you're too chicken to actually bring her to meet your parents and b.) _her_ parents would frown upon _you_ if she took you home to meet them.

Wait. I don't think that's really what I mean; Maureen isn't the type of girl I'd take home to meet my parents. She's very pretty, of course, and if not smart then at least witty, and she's nice enough to me, even if she is a little bit... well, physical, I guess. But I wouldn't bring her home to meet my parents; my father would probably take to her too much, and my mom would turn into the father of the bride: constantly suspicious and exasperated to a fault; how could her pure little son have possibly been seduced by the lascivious ways of a seditious harlot?

No, really. That's my mom.

But anyway. Almost as much as I can't see myself bringing Maureen home to meet my over-protective mom and righteous father, I can't see myself bringing Maureen home to meet my friends and roommates. With Roger, roguish and serpentine as he is, connected to April closer in than the hip, with Benny, always the womanizer, and Collins, ever a ...manizer with a anarchical streak a mile wide, it's not that I think Maureen won't fit in. She'll work herself in with them just fine. I'm really worried about myself, as ugly as that sounds. I've got this bad feeling that being around these guys is going to make Maureen realize how much of a loser I am.

What if she forgot about me to mess around with someone else? Someone like Roger. Not that Roger would cheat on April or anything. Just... what if? I mean, it's not like I think Maureen is unfaithful or anything. It's just... you know. I'd be blind and vain if I tried to pass myself off as half as good-looking as Roger is, or half as talented. Or half as cool. I'm just not. He's Roger, the hip, badass underground rocker who can smoke pot freely and of his own will and has no girl-problems to speak of. I'm Mark, the goofy, awkward writer-slash-filmmaker who can't handle beer or marijuana and who has never had a girlfriend in his life, even if it is a young life. And that's unless you count Maureen. But Maureen's not even my girlfriend; she's just- we're... I don't know.

What _are_ we? Whatever _we_ are, she likes me, right? She's got to, since she kissed me like that. And I like her. I know I do. Way more than some junior high crush or infatuation with some unattainable celebrity. That's got to count for something... Unless it doesn't. I wouldn't know.

"Mark?"

I guess I don't realize that I've been standing outside the door to our apartment until Maureen tugs on my arm and calls my name; talk about spacing out.

"Something the matter?"

"No, I'm fine," I reply, shoving the hand that isn't holding my camera into my pockets, feeling around for the key that will let us in and out of the cold, damp night that is threatening to storm again. "Oh, I... I don't think I have my-"

"Key? You don't," April interrupts, giggling as Roger wills me out of the way to open the door, twirling the key around his finger when the door starts to close behind him. "Roger does."

"Roger!" In an act of chivalry that would make my mother proud and Roger sarcastic, I jump to catch the door right before it slams, much to the smiles and giggles of my female friends, one of whom -you can guess which- curtseys as she crosses the creaky threshold and pulls me along behind her, following Roger and April up a narrow stairwell as far as it takes us, right to the unlocked door of our loft apartment.

"Damn." Coming from Maureen, I can't tell whether that's a, 'Damn, this place is a shithole,' or a, 'Damn, this room is going to swallow me.'

I jump to my home's defense anyway, not looking forward to meeting skeptical looks from Maureen every time we come back here. "You get used to it," I explain. "It's really a mess now; we were kind of in a hurry to get out tonight, and-"

"No, Mark- wow. I _love_ this space." I can't help myself but smile as Maureen looks around, up towards the high ceiling, at the loft blocked off by curtains, at the long windows and the makeshift stove, which has long since gone out. "God, it's-" She throws her arms out to her sides, earning a weird look from Roger, who's already situated himself on our well-worn couch, Collins' bed. "This is so cool. It's so alive!"

I almost want to let her know that it's probably more alive than she means, that while four or five people live here at once, there are smaller, four and six and eight legged inhabitants whose presence isn't so welcome. But I smile and nod and thank her, shrugging my shoulders and shoving my hands into my pockets, modestly and quietly taking her unusual compliment.

"Yeah- it's home, even if it is a little cold."

"Well, that means we don't need a fridge for the drinks," April interjects, smirking as she comes out of the kitchen with three bottles of beer, hands one to Maureen, and tosses the other to Roger before joining him on the couch. "Tea water's on, Mark." Leave it to April to remember my tea.

"Tea? Not coffee?" I raise an eyebrow and Maureen grins, running her fingers back through my hair again, knocking the curls around and leaving her hand on the back of my neck. "You're not one of those beatnik kids who sits around in coffee shops trying to write all day, are you?"

"Are you kidding?" Roger starts, grinning and pulling April onto his lap. "They'd kick him out after an hour with all the money he's got."

"Good. I can't stand those beatnik guys. Too moody"

She looks at me, and I shrug. She laughs, and I smile. She pulls my head towards her, and I slip out from under her hand and take two steps back, shoving my free hand into my pocket and pulling my camera close.

"I-uh... I'm going to get dressed," I murmur, taking off for the ladder to the bedrooms and indicating my soaked jeans and damp shirt as I go. "I'll be right back, okay? Just... wait down here?" I don't know how Maureen can be so comfortable with that sort of contact when Roger and April are stretched out on the couch not ten feet away. I mean... they can see everything, and even if they won't say anything to her yet, I'll get harassed for days. I'm a schlemiel. I'm an easy target. I can't help it.

"Is he always like that?" I stop near the top of the ladder to look down on the floor below, where Maureen's made herself comfortable at the base of the couch and has started on her... third or fourth beer of the night.

"Like what? Flighty and spastic?" April laughs and leans back into Roger.

"Nah. He's usually really boring." Gee. Thanks, pal. "He's just nervous because you make him horny." Thanks again. There's laughter from downstairs, and when Roger looks up at me on the ladder, I take it as my cue to leave and disappear under the curtain of sheets that Roger and I have constructed as the front wall of our bedroom.

I'm pretty sure that I'm blushing, since when I peel my wet clothes off and toss them into a yellow crate, my face is definitely warmer than the rest of my body. In fact, the rest of me is pretty damn cold. I weigh pajamas versus regular clothes, not really wanting to have to get dressed again, but not about to look like a slob in front of Maureen. Clothes it is, even if that means the corduroys that April's already nixed and a sweater that will only make it worse.

Just as I cross to retrieve my pants, the veil of sheets rustles and moves, and I nearly dive into bed and scramble under the sheets, feeling that Maureen and I haven't progressed far enough in our nonexistent relationship for her to see me in my underwear.

"You have three seconds to put clothes on. One... two..."

Even I smile here and relax under my mismatched sheets; the voice addressing me is much too rough to be Maureen's, and the fair warning is common between Roger and me, what with sharing a room and having at least a tiny bit of respect for privacy.

"Three." Roger appears, head and shoulders first, through the hanging sheets, snickering when he looks around and finds me cocooned in bed. "Mark, please don't tell me that you're wanking with your girlfriend sitting right downstairs." He's trying to be professional, but his grin is hard to hide.

"Very funny. Hand me my pants?" He does, tossing them at my face as soon as I've said it, knocking my glasses askew. I disentangle myself from the sheets and stand to get dressed, pulling my pants on while Roger wanders, plucking two notes on his guitar, nudging the side of his mattress with his toe, and overturning an unused crate for the Hell of it before returning to me and leaning against the table partition between our room and Benny's.

"Really, Mark: why are you even bothering to get dressed? You could have killed two birds and your virginity with one stone just by asking Maureen to follow you up."

Feeling my ears burn, I throw one of my shoes at him, and he nonchalantly kicks it across the room. "Is sex all you think about?" Without waiting for the answer, which I already know, I carry on. "Roger, we're not even... I've known her for two hours."

"...And?"

"And... and you just don't do that after two hours. That's after months and months of a strong, committed relationsh-"

"Two hours didn't stop me and April."

"...Thanks," I deadpan, fixing the button on my pants and searching around for a belt. "But me and Maureen aren't you and April." Take that.

"Yeah, well." He sits himself down on my milk-crate nightstand and strums an air guitar for a few seconds, too lazy to walk across the room for his acoustic, but in need of something to do. "She's going to leave you. Fast."

I don't know why this scares me. Technically, I'm not even hers to leave, and the way things went back in the bar, I don't get the feeling that she's tired of me already, but a sick chill creeps up my spine and all the way to my fingertips, which wind through the canvas belt that I've finally found under a few of Roger's shirts. There's something about his nonchalance that's turning my blood to liquid ice, I think; hubris, after all, is the downfall of so many would-be heroes. Not that I'm a hero.

"That's not funny."

"But it's true." In a moment of silence, he looks over to where I've seated myself on my mattress again, belt and sweater forgotten, then goes back to his air-guitar and presses on coolly. "Mark, I don't know how you think you two will work out. She's horny as a seventeen year-old guy. Unless that guy's you."

"I don't-"

"Do you seriously think that she came home with you so that you can look at the stars and watch old movies? Even for the beer. Do you think she _really_ came for that? I mean, you said it yourself: she could have any guy. Why you?"

Thinking it is one thing. Hearing it from a best friend is another thing entirely.

"Something's going to have to give, Mark, or she's going to go, and not only will you be alone again, but you'll have missed out on losing your virginity to one of the hottest chicks you've ever seen. Even if she is a sneaky bitch."

"She is not."

"Not what? Not sneaky, or not a bitch? Or not hot?"

I flop backwards into bed and hold the heels of my hands against my temples, closing my eyes while Roger, in his own harsh way, tries to help.

"I've been with a lot of girls, and even if they're great on the outside, they've all got their inner bitch. Maureen's inner bitch is just bigger than most others. You can't see it, since you don't know better, but just seeing how she treats you, it's damn obvious. If you don't give her what she wants, it's over."

"Just how does she treat me?" That's unfair for him to say. "She's nice to me. She's really nice."

Without a warning, save the scratching of the milk-crate against the dull wooden floor, my mattress sinks a little, and there's a significant new weight on top of me, something that feels not unlike a knee firmly between my legs. Startled, I open my eyes again and push my hands up, right against Roger's chest, meeting his grin with a scowl.

"You're so cute, _Markie_," he mocks, trying on a high-pitched sigh of a voice as he leans down closer to my face. "We should fuck."

"Shut up."

"Oh, you're so _cute_ when you're angry. We should fuck."

"Roger, get off," I growl, shoving hard at his shoulders, which only brings him down closer. "You're such an asshole."

"Are you going to say that to her when she's the one on top of you?" His voice is back now, low and rough, but coming through a smirk to kill all smirks. "Don't think it won't happen, because it will. Soon, if you're looking to stay with her."

"We're not even together," I argue, but the conviction isn't there. "We're not."

"Bullshit."

"I just met her! She's not my girlfriend, Roger."

"Not yet. These things go in order, Mark." Without even trying, he moves my arms out from under him and pins them solidly at the elbows with his own arms. I wince, and he feigns pity. "First, you meet. You have a few drinks, get to know the bare minimum about each other. Next, you're fuck-buddies."

"Shut up." I'm sure that I blush crimson when I struggle under him, getting a grin from Roger when I can't budge under his weight.

"What? 'Fuck-buddy?'"

"That's not true!"

"Fuck-buddy, fuck-buddy, fuck-buddy." If I could move, I'd kill him. "Sure it's true. She'll be all over you, and you're crazy if you say no."

"I'll say no."

"No, you won't. Don't give me that; you want her."

"Not like that!"

"Yeah right. I know you're not as innocent as she thinks you are. You want her."

"Roger, that's gr-"

"Gross? What's so gross about it? So, you have sex. So what? Everyone has sex, Mark, and don't tell me that you don't think about it, because I know damn well you do. You're not going to get struck down dead if it's Maureen instead of your hand."

I glare and then look away, but I don't deny it.

"Are you really going to miss out on this chick because you're too afraid of what your mom would think if you had sex? Your _mom_? Think about it like this: I bet your mom wouldn't be too happy if she knew that you whacked off, either. Live a little."

"And she'd be downright pissed if I became a teenage father."

"Condoms, Mark: we have them. Use them."

"What are you, anyway? My father or my Health teacher?"

"Hey, I'm just looking out for you. You've been living here too long to still be a virgin." He grins, and I've got to smile a little under my blush, even if I don't really know what to say. What follows is a weird silence, with Roger staring down at me, studying me like he's actually paying attention. Very, very close attention.

"Mark?" he asks after what seems like a few minutes, and I try to squirm under him, getting rather sore after being pinned for so long.

"Yeah?"

"...Do you even know how to use a condom?" The serious look on his face breaks right in half when he grins and starts to laugh, and even though my face burns up, I smile and kick at his legs, twisting and struggling and promising to kill him when I get up.

"You know, a lot of virgins lose their nerve, if you know what I mean." He nudges his knee a little too close, and I frantically try to knock him off balance, laughing now, and attempting to knee him in the stomach. "Are you going to be able to handle it, _Markie_?"

"Fuck you."

"Or will it be the other way around?"

He lets go of my arms now, but only long enough to give me the chance for one good shove before flipping me over to my stomach and dropping his full weight onto my back, grinding his knuckles into my head until I'm howling half in pain and half in laughter. Leave it to Roger Davis to turn a sex-talk into a one-sided wrestling match.

"You're _horny_ for her!" he jeers, grinning. "You wish that I were her, laying on top of you like this."

"I _hate_ you!"

"I know you do." He flips me over one more time, knocking my glasses down my nose and further worrying my hair when my head hits the springs again. "You know, you're definitely going to be on the bottom."

"Whoa!" I barely even have time to blush by the time another voice, distinctly female, interrupts, and Maureen's head and shoulders can be seen poking through the curtains at the top of the ladder. "Oh, God. I should have known you were gay."

Needless to say, Roger doesn't miss a beat. "Straight as a circle, babe," he says, smirking horribly as he slips one hand behind my head and smothers my nose and mouth with the other, pressing his mouth to the back of his hand and 'kissing' me passionately, much to my kicking and struggling. He only pulls back and sits up when I think I'm about to pass out, grinning broadly as he watches me catch my breath and glare at him from behind my crooked glasses.

"Be careful with him, okay?" he says, standing to his feet and glancing over at Maureen. "He bruises easily."

Maureen giggles and quickly makes herself very at home in my bed. "Sure thing. We'll go slow."

I blush horribly when she starts to trace invisible hearts low on my stomach, and Roger flashes me a grin and a thumbs-up from behind Maureen's back.

"I'm going to get back to April and getting drunk," he informs us, and I shake my head in the negative; if he doesn't leave, I won't be alone with Maureen like this. "Don't cry, Mark; tonight is going to be the best night of your pathetic young life. And I'll even let you have the room to yourself. Your_selves_."

He turns to go back downstairs, leaving me half-naked with a very smikry Maureen laying half on top of me, but turns back towards us just as he gets to the spot where the ladder is hidden.

"Oh. You can thank me later, but there's a condom under your pillow."

I really do hate him.

* * *

**Notes:** And I take my first whack at something akin to slash. In honor of the Day of Silence and because some insane anti gay-rights protesters harassed me today outside of school, I might try to pull a Roger/ Mark one-shot together, but it'll be late. 

I love reviews. Hint, hint, grin.


	7. Breakfast of Champions

**Chapter Seven:** Breakfast of Champions  
**Notes and Disclaimer:** Sorry for the delay. Maureen is just very terrible for me to write; she comes off sounding more like a queen than anything else, and… gah. She's just awful. I hate it.Loathe this chapter.This story's quickly coming to a close, though. I've got the final chapter written, so you can expect that soon, plus an epilogue, perhaps, a bit later. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and that you'll like the next one better.

Oh. Note the rating change. Foul language ahead.

Jonathan Larson, may he rest in peace, owns all.

* * *

_-Maureen-_

You know, I've got to admit: for a minute there, I really did think that I had walked in on a kind of queer boy quickie. Don't get me wrong; that's something that I wouldn't mind watching, since Roger and Mark aren't by any means bad-looking, but considering that I'm planning on fucking the bespectacled half of that odd couple mindless tonight, seeing him crotch-to-crotch with another hot guy is sort of weird. Kinky, sure, but still weird.

Not that I can't do kinky. Chances are, if it's doesn't involve any permanent harm to me or anything with more than two legs, I'll at least try it once, and chances are that if I try it once, I'll try it again if I like the guy enough. Something gives me the idea that sweet, little Markie's not going to be into anything too taboo, but you never know. I really am Queen of Persuasion, after all, and I don't think that convincing Mark to experiment would be that hard. I'll see how I feel when we get there.

"So... you were getting started without me?"

Roger isn't even all the way out of the room when I start to work on Mark, who looks like he's about to puke, throwing an arm around his neck and using my free hand to draw invisible pictures over top his skin. Pasty, pale skin. Otherwise perfect, no zits or scars or anything, but so frigging white. This boy really needs some sun.

Unless he's a vampire or something. Like, only prowls at night, seduces fair young women... I've read that all vampires are really hot. Pretty, almost, and the way I see it, since Mark's not exactly all-American handsome, I guess he can be pretty, as long as he's not as pretty as me; I'd make one sexy vampire goddess.

But, seriously. How cool would it be if sweet, little Markie were a vampire secretly lusting after my blood? That's taking kinky to a whole new level, I think, even if it would mean that I only have twelve hours' opportunity for sex, as opposed to twenty-four. I guess I could do that.

"Uhm, Maureen... Do you mind if I, you know... put some clothes on?"

Then again, vampires aren't supposed to be pansies. You'd never hear one ask to suck every drop of blood from your body; he'd just do it. And since they're gorgeous anyway, vampires shouldn't mind being in their underwear in front of hot girls. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure that vampires wouldn't need glasses, either.

"Mark." The note of urgency in my voice thickens the air, I swear. "You're not a vampire, are you?"

He stares blankly at me for the longest time, blinking only once or twice from behind his glasses, then actually cracks a smile until he realizes that I'm serious.

"Oh, I- - sorry." He also needs to learn to not be so goddamn polite all the time. He didn't even _do_ anything. "I guess... I couldn't be a vampire, so... no."

"Why couldn't you be a vampire?"

"I... well, they don't exist, for one; they're just... folkloric creatures passed down in stories and glamourized in contemporary literature and film. Halloween costumes and excuses to scare little kids. I mean, sure, there's some debatable evidence as to their existence, but I don't think that blood-sucking creatures could possibly surv-"

Despite my attempt at being interested in Mark's scientific theories, I roll my eyes gently and press two fingers down against his lips, which immediately shuts him up and brings blood rushing to his face. Shit. That's got to be the most he's said in one breath all night, and he was talking about vampires. Maybe he just talks a lot when he's nervous and horny... Why the Hell are we even talking about vampires, anyway?

"And, I guess... if vampires did really exist, I'm still a vegetarian, so I don't think I could drink the blood and everything."

Eew. My little cutie lives on tofu and celery. I really hope that he can't cook

"A vegetarian? Really?"

"Well... sort of." He shrugs against his... bed, I guess, and nods his head, slowly trying to squirm out from underneath me without making it seem like he's trying to squirm out from underneath me. "I'm really more of a dry cereal and Ramen-ian."

"Mm. Breakfast of champions."

"Oh, _Breakfast of Champions_. Kurt Vonnegut, right? That was a pretty good book. My mother would probably die if she knew I read it, but it was really very good. Sort of sick, but honestly funny. I mean, I guess the time period's a little bit before me, but the ideas are so widely explored in the modern media that the subjects are hard not to relate t- "

"_Mark._" I whine, exasperated but smiling, almost amused, and he shuts up again long enough to drop his hands, which absolutely fly when he gets to talking, and look up at me. "Are books and obscure pop-culture references the stuff of your wet-dreams?"

I get the idea that nobody's ever said the words, 'wet dream' to Mark, and the look on his face shows it; his mouth is half open, and his eyes are wide, and he looks guilty, almost, like he's trying to come up with some way to explain himself, now that he's been caught red-handed.

Oh, God, I hope he's got nothing to explain, or this poor boy's even sadder than I thought.

"Mark?"

"I- no! I mean, I wouldn't even... that's disgusting, to think... do you mind if I put some clothes on?"

"Mark. I was kidding, hon. I was _kidding_." He bites his lower lip and smiles in that cute little anxious way of his, and I resist the urge to mess up his hair. "Damn, boy. You've really got to learn how to chill a little bit, you know?"

"Oh, no; I'm okay, rea-"

"No, I don't think so. You're way too tense." I can tell by the way my own smirk takes over my smile, that regardless of how Mark would like to keep things, this whole situation is about to go downhill very, very fast. "I can help with that."

"What do you-"

I quiet him with a kiss this time, instead of with two fingers or a whine, and it seems for a _very_ long time that the either of the other two tactics would have worked better; all he does is freeze up and stare at me down his nose, unwilling to put his arms around me or lean in or just close his eyes and sit back and enjoy the beginning of the end of his life as a squeamish little virgin.

I think he thinks I'm going to suck his soul out through his mouth. Sure, I mean to twist and corrupt it enough so that it's no longer its perfect, pure, sparkling, mama's boy white, but sucking it out completely would be sort of counterproductive; sex is no fun with a corpse. Then again, Mark has got to be the most corpse-like guy I've ever been with, and not only because he's crazy pale and bony. Seriously, what kind of straight, -and he had _better_ be straight, or this whole thing is a huge waste of my time- adolescent guy can resist the charm of a girl as hot as me?

Not to brag, but yeah; I'm pretty damn hot.

"Mark." I huff and pull away from him to see that he's blushing brightly, before resting my elbows against his chest and pushing him all the way onto his back. "Come on, Markie. You know you want it, and this dead fish thing is getting sort of old." I move to straddle his legs, but he draws them up and looks away from me, probably to avoid meeting the scowl that's quickly forming over my once-smirking lips. "If you seriously don't want this, I can leave, you know."

That brings his legs down pretty damn fast. Score one for empty threats!

Quickly making myself comfortable on top of Mark, it isn't long before I find myself leaning down to kiss him again, and much to my surprise, he doesn't move to push me away or to wriggle out from under me. In fact, after a few seconds of hesitation, he even closes his eyes. In a few more seconds, he's opened his mouth enough for me to slip my tongue in, and though he does squirm, he knows better than to protest it.

Aw, poor baby. I almost feel bad that I had to scare him into it. I _almost_ feel bad that I had to scare him into it.

I pull his arms up around my waist, and he lets them fall away once before he decides that it's better to follow than to try and lead, since he obviously has no idea what he's doing, With his fingers laced behind my back, I grin into his shy kiss and burry one of my own hands into his hair, which is still damp and drying into the curls I've wound into it. It doesn't stay there, of course, and quickly starts down his temple and jaw line, then down his throat to chase his collarbone from neck to shoulder and back again.

He twitches. How cute is that? When my fingernails slide from his chest to his stomach, he actually _twitches_, and I can't help but giggle, which makes him squirm in a good way.

Naturally, once I'm at the waistband of his boxers, there's really nowhere to go but down, but from the way Mark's slowly relaxing, I don't think he's realized this yet. It's almost a shame to freak him out, but with all of the dawdling he did just getting to this point, we've got some catching up to do. So, rather shamelessly, I gently bite down on Mark's bottom lip and quickly slip my hand down past the elastic in his shorts, brushing against him enough to earn an audible yelp from my skittish little partner. Damnit all to Hell.

He's on his feet almost before I can get my hand out of his shorts, cluching at the waistband with one hand and modestly covering himself with the other, staring down at me, perfectly afraid, just as I stare up at him, perfectly annoyed.

"I- - I'm sorry, Maureen, but I think... this-"

"Are you serious? Mark, come _on_. What are you waiting for?"

"This, uhm- - this just isn't right, Maureen."

Like Hell this isnt' right.

"Like Hell this isn't right."

"No, please... Maureen, just-"

"Listen, sweetie, I know the whole anxious virgin thing, okay? Been there, done that. Mark, if you don't do this now, you're going to regret it. Believe me."

"But it's been... three hours or.. or something like that, and I don't- - I can't just-"

"Sure you can. It's really not that hard, Mark." I'm sorry. I can't help myself: "Unlike some other things, huh?"

He blushes wildly and pretends not to take a glance down, but I use the moment to get on my feet and start towards him. I manage to get within two feet of him before he backs away, eyeing his feet or the floor until he backs with a dull crash into the makeshift partition dividing the loft in two. I know it's mean, but I don't even give him the chance to recover before I'm up against him again, groping boldly while he tries to disappear into the stacked-up tables and chairs.

"Okay, Mark. If you really, _really_ don't want this, I'm not about to risk getting myself thrown in jail for statutory rape or whatever." His eyes widen at the idea, either of jail or of statutory rape, and I know then that I've just about got him. "But. But. If you really, _really_ don't want this, I've got to go downstairs and leave now, and that means Roger and his girlfriend know that you chickened out."

"M-maureen, I-"

"And it means they know that _I_ couldn't even get to you. Markie, you're making me look bad!" I accentuate the guilt trip with a firm squeeze below the belt, and I swear that his knees almost give out on him. "Come on, Markie; you don't want that, do you?"

With a few well-placed kisses and the right kind of grasp on the situation, it's very clear that, no; he doesn't want that at all. See? I knew that I could convince him; in a matter of minutes, he's all mine, shaking his head while I kiss up and down his throat and stammering out some kind of consent as I lead him back over to his mattress.

By the hands, of course.

* * *

You know, Mark really is cute.

I sit up a bit in bed, pulling the sheets up to my shoulders in a bad attempt to insulate myself from the chill that never seems to leave Mark and Roger's crumbling building, and I run my fingers through his hair, smiling gently while he sleeps soundly beside me. He looks so small. It's almost scary, really; he could be my little brother, lying there, relaxed for once, his hair wild and his glasses askew, probably dreaming something colorful while I watch him sleep.

Not only is he cute, but he's really very sweet to go along with it. Some guys, you know, they have his innocent sort of aura about them; they're shy and quiet and don't flirt well, but they turn out to be absolute animals in bed. That, or they turn into complete jackasses. It's crazy.

Not Mark, though. He's quiet and soft-spoken, gentle almost to a fault. He blushes at anything and smiles when he's nervous, which is often. He'll take 'making love' over 'fucking,' and he's charmingly clumsy and always apologetic, something you don't usually get when picking up a guy from a sleazy bar.

Sex with Mark wasn't mind-blowing. It wasn't fast and loud, and it wasn't groundbreaking, bed rocking sex like I normally get. Chalk it up to lack of experience, but it didn't even last all that long. This didn't make it bad; just different: very intimate, softhearted, and… loving, I guess. He even said it, right before he curled up next to me and drifted off; "I love you." I don't know if he meant it or if it just seemed like the only thing to say after losing his virginity to an almost complete stranger, but it was, like I said, very sweet, at the time.

I hope he didn't really mean it, though; I don't know if I can handle having someone fall in love with me. You've got to understand: I'm really good with flings. One-night stands, fine. Short-term stuff, great. Even a few months of open sex in a relationship is okay with me, as long as it's for the sex. Love means commitment and crying and all the unhappy stuff that comes with getting dumped and used and shit. I can't take that.

I don't think that Mark can take it, either. He's too nice a guy to have his heart broken, and if he meant what he said in, "I love you," then he's going to be crushed when I've got to move on to other things.

For now, though, he's definitely cute. I can see myself with him for a while, if only because he's different from the other guys I've fucked and left; he's innocent, even now, and it's comforting, I guess, to know that he's going to trust me.

Smiling, I settle back down into bed and place a quick kiss on Mark's cheek before wrapping my arms loosely around his neck and drifting off into a wonderfully dreamless sleep.

I guess that giving him a few months won't hurt anyone.

* * *

**Notes**: And so goes my pathetic attempt at anything intimate. I know, I suck. If you review, though, maybe the next thing won't suck quite so much. Perhaps. If I can find that sort of will. Thanks for reading, though! 


	8. A Girlfriend's House

**Chapter Eight: **A Girlfriend's House**  
Notes and Disclaimer: **And so it goes, and so it goes, and so I think I'm finished here. I might follow this chapter with an epilogue from multiple points of view, just to tie up a few loose ends, but I sort of think that I've done what I wanted to do with this story. My favorite chapter, by far, was chapter six, which featured Roger being a bastard, but a happy bastard. Going on that, I feel another story coming on, one of a considerably darker and slashier nature. I don't know if I can do that, but I guess it's worth a shot, and it's a way to pass a few good hours.

I don't own any characters, of course. They belong to the late, great Jonathan Larson.

_Warning_: Nastiness ahead. Not so nice as before.

**

* * *

**

_-Roger-_

"So. You're cheating on him."

I don't even give her the chance to close the door behind her before the accusation's out there, visible in front of me as frozen breath in the thin November air. I can see her breath, too, billowing around her in strong blasts; her breathing's heavy, and her face is flushed, be it from the cold or otherwise. Probably otherwise.

"_Excuse_ me?"

I swear, she's always got to be a drama queen. Her hands fly to her hips, and she shoots me this look like she's daring me to continue. Fine. I really don't have anything to lose here; she's the one who's going to get found out. Sure, I may come off a bastard, and I maydeserve half the shit I get, yeah,but she's really in for it this time, and I'm in a foul mood, so I'm more than willing to tell her off.

"You heard me: you're cheating on him. How long now?"

"Who the Hell do you think you-"

"Mark. Who the Hell do _you_ think? You're cheating on Mark."

Maureen's mouth drops open in a shocked sort of scowl as she glares daggers at me, pissed off and surprised and trying to throw together a raging lie or some fake tears before we get too far into this. Either way, I'm going to win this one. The screaming and yelling won't work with me; it's a proven fact that I can scream louder and just generally be meaner son of a bitch than anyone I know, Maureen included, and the crocodile tears, while they'll get Mark to give in and bend to her every want almost immediately, have absolutely no effect whatsoever on me.

"Remember him? Really short, skinny little blonde kid with blue eyes? Glasses?"

"Go to Hell, Roger," she spits, almost literally, trying to toss her hair back as a nonchalant gesture. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Always has a camera with him? Lives on tea? Wool sweaters? Steno pads and photo albums? Mark. Your boyf-"

"I know who Mark is, Roger. _Where_ is he?"

"You mean you even care? You didn't care last night. Or the night before that. Did you _ever_ care, Maureen, after the thrill of fucking a boy in handcuffs wore off?"

She hits me then, right across the jaw, hard. Harder than I've been hit since April, but that's not saying much, seeing as I've been living with Mark all this time. I swallow a curse and lean back into the couch, casually nursing my face though my uneven beard and flicking her off. For someone who's probably just gotten laid, she sure gets pissed easily.

"You're being _ridiculous_! You know what?" She throws her arms up into the air, shaking her head of dark curls in disbelief as she crosses between my couch and the TV that's casting over the otherwise dark room an eerie blue glow. "I'm not talking to you." She jabs a finger at me and gesticulates wildly, pacing and throwing her hands around. "I'm not even going to bother talking to you when you're like this. Where the Hell is Mark?"

"Oh, so you _do_ remember him." I crack my knuckles and sit up some from how I've been slouched against the arm of the couch. "He's in bed. Asleep. Alone. Would you believe that after two days and two nights of waiting around for you, he finally got tired and passed out about an hour ago?"

"Two days? I _told_ him that I had a reading to do in-"

"Philly, yeah. He told me; I know. A reading in Philly on Thursday. It's Saturday, Maureen. Sunday morning."

"Well, I never said that it was going to be a day trip. I wouldn't expect _you_ to know, but these things take time."

"Where's your stuff?"

"...What?"

I can't help but smirk from behind my overgrown goatee. "Where's your stuff? Didn't you bring anything for this trip?" She's got absolutely nothing on her, with the exception of a leopard-print purse and the clothes she's wearing, and it's definitely not like Maureen, Queen of Clothes to travel light, especially with winter coming on. "Clothes, shoes, condoms, cuffs?"

"I stayed at a girlfriend's house. So, now is there something wrong with-"

"Oh, come on, Maureen. It's so fucking obvious." I've been a miserable, drug-starved, sexually repressed bastard for the past five months, and even _I've_ been able to bring myself out of myself and notice the trouble in the paradise. "Out 'till three, coming home blitzed, all these 'auditions' all of a sudden, and -and this is so unlike you!- too tired for sex. Who's your new man?"

"Shut the fuck up, Roger!"

"Is he hot? Is hejust really big, or are you looking for a job and find it easier to fuck with a director than to acutally au-?"

"It's none of your business what I do with my time, Roger! Just because you've spent half a year sitting around all day and all night feeling sorry for yourself doesn't mean that I'm going to hang around and wait on you like Mark does."

"Don't you dare blame this on me," I growl, digging my fingers into the worn-out couch and clenching my teeth to keep from going off on her. "I didn't fucking ask him to stay. He does, because you've got better people and things to do, anyway." What a cold, hardbitch. I warned Mark about her months ago. Before everything went to Hell and I became permanently depressed and constantly pissed off, I warned Mark that this chick was a grade-A bitch who was going to chew him up and spit him out when she got tired of him. "You've got no right to fuck other guys and then come home and let Mark tell you that he 'loves' y-."

"It's none of your goddamn business, Roger!"

"Yeah? Well, I think he should know that when he's with you, he's with the bouncer and the DJ and the bartender and the drummer in some band-"

"Stay the fuck out of it!" Maureen screams, throwing her purse in my direction and missing my a mile, furiously running her hands back through her hair and over her eyes before crossing her arms against her chest. "Why the Hell do you even care so much if I'm with someone else? It's not like I'm going to come to you like you are, all emotional and needy and shit. All you fucking men, I swear, you all need so much attention!"

Wait. Maureen just accused me of being an attention whore. _Maureen_ just accused me of being an attention whore. This is how I know that the world's going to Hell. "I might be a dickhead, Maureen, but if you were ever around to pay attention, you'd see what I see happening."

"Oh, yeah? What is it that you see happening, Roger, since you're so fucking smart all of a sudden? Since when do you give a damn about anything outside of your own little unhappy world?"

"Ever seen Mark cry?"

For once in her life, Maureen Johnson has nothing smart to say. She stares at me, wanting desperately to be angry, to blame me for whatever problem she's having, but knowing that she's seriously gone in over her head with this whole thing.

"Not since... only when you and April... Just then, I think. Why? Why are you even asking me that?"

Mark is a very private person. He'll make a study out of everyone else's life, sure, but when it comes to his own thoughts and feelings, he shuts himself up and writes or films or hides in bed. He rarely complains or vents or whines without me prompting it, and he's usually very collected. Even when he's drunk, he doesn't run off personal secrets. Mark never cries. Not when there's anyone there to see him, at least, with the one exception being the night April died and I got my death sentence handed to me in three words. I know that he cries on his own, but never when someone might be there to care that he's upset.

"Right. How about this, then? Tonight, right before he finally went to sleep, Mark just put his head down on the kitchen table and cried. Cried, okay? Congratulations, Maureen: you made Mark cry himself to sleep at the fucking kitchen table, because you left him alone for a few one-night stands."

She's biting her lip and shaking her head, her arms still crossed over her chest, hair in her eyes, fingers tapping against her sides. "Why did he-"

"Christ, Maureen." I haul myself off the couch and, staring hard at her, completely stubborn and unwilling to forgive, make my way across the room. "I hope you're happy."

Resisting the urge to curse and rave and tell Maureen to get out, to keep away from Mark, I shut my mouth and leave her standing there, heading for the ladder to our bedroom so that I can get another pillow and go to bed. I've accomplished what I needed to do tonight. When I get a few rungs up the ladder, though, I freeze and mutter a low, "Fuck," under my breath, turning my head away.

Right at the top of the ladder, hunched there with his head on his knees, sits Mark, fully dressed and dully illuminated by the glow of our Christmas lights and the ever-present cityscape through the high windows. Maureen obviously hasn't noticed him yet, but when I hop down off the ladder and it still creaks in his descent, she looks over at him, then immediately away again. Good. She shouldn't even look at him.

It's disgusting, the way he can just cross between us like that, slowly and silently, not even looking up from his shoes, which scuff against the floor as he makes his way across the long room, towards the door. He should be fuming. He should be storming outside, kicking and screaming and crying. He should be demanding to know what exactly went through Maureen's mind, why she didn't call him, why he wasn't good enough. He should be pissed at me for getting involved. He should be a fucking tornado roaring through the loft, but he's not. That's not him. Where he should be pissed, he's quiet and calm and sad.

Finding himself at the door, Mark takes his oversized coat from the back of a chair and slips it on over a thick sweater and his usual scarf. He takes his time buttoning it, from bottom to top, then opens the door and turns to where Maureen and I have both taken to staring.

"I think I'm going to take a walk."

What kills me is that he says it with a smile. Bitter and sad and only to hide tears, sure, but he offers a small, defeated smile anyway, and tucks his camera under his arm before leaving the loft, quietly pulling the door closed behind him.

See, there's this thing about Mark that you've got to notice when you're living with him: he'll never tell you _exactly_ what's going on, but you can always catch the general gist of it from his body language. If he's really excited about something, you'll see it right away; he'll have this queer sort of half-sideways grin on his face and won't seem to be able to sit down to save his life. If there's something bothering him, chances are, Mark will sit up in our room, right on the edge of his mattress, and scribble down plot points or character backgrounds for some script he'll never look at again. That, or he'll take his camera and go on long walks, come in and out at strange times, and then actually sleep eight hours and wake up perfectly content in the morning.

This is one of his long walks. Long, silent walks through the village at three in the morning. I don't know what he thinks, walking through the park and seeing the junkies, the hookers, and the homeless people on the benches, or watching fires burn in tin trash cans, but that's always what he notices on these walks. Maybe he's a sad sort of masochist, feeling better about himself in knowing that with these people, he's got the right to be miserable, or maybe he's secretly hoping that one of them will mug him and really give him a reason to value his life when it seems so generally shitty. Maybe he just likes to walk.

In any case, I know as soon as he's out the door that he's not going to be back until it's light out, and that when he collapses in his bed, alone again, he's going to wake up in the morning trying to convince himself that he's happy, since that's what he always does. But he's not going to be happy. There's no way he's going to be happy, but he's going to smile and make breakfast and write some and film some and try to make it seem like everything's okay so that nobody will suspect that he's hurting.

Now I know that Mark's a better actor than Maureen's ever going to be; I've been looking right through her ever since she got here, but I've never really seen Mark until now.

* * *

**End Notes: **Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading, and my sincere gratitude to everyone who reviewed or will review this story and my other shorter pieces. I might just add an epilogue, as I've said, but I might not. In any case, expect something from me in the next week or so. 

_Auf wiedersehen. A bientot. _


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